


Small Things

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:52:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Busman's Honeymoon and the short story "The Haunted Policeman." Peter and Harriet's first Christmas with young Bredon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Things

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Laura Kaye in the Yuletide 2007 Challenge.

It was a mere two weeks before Christmas, and snow fell heavily on Audley Square, piling up on rooftops and covering Hyde Park in a thick blanket of white. The naked trees , however fragile they may have appeared without green, leafy boughs, stood up to the onslaught, their spidery limbs black against the slate grey sky.   
  
But in one particular home - previously the Belchesters, currently the abode of one Lord and Lady Peter Wimsey - glowing windows blazed, warding away the wet, sticky cold that had enveloped London. Inside warmth seemed to infuse everything, though whether this was due to the crackling fireplaces or the general content of the inhabitants, it was near impossible to say.  
  
Lady Peter Wimsey, for instance, was quite content. Motherhood rather suited her - a sentiment her husband shared with her frequently - and she was still presented with a vague sort of surprise when she realized how perfectly, how neatly her child - their child - fit in her arms.  
  
And though she was content, perhaps moreso than she could ever remember being, a tiny frown remained stubbornly lodged at her brow.  
  
"Peter, I had rather hoped it wouldn't come to this."  
  
"Surely you're aware, my darling, there's nothing for it."  
  
"Peter..."  
  
"Ah, how can I deny my lady love when she turns her dulcet tones to such a familiar - and disapproving - pitch?" Said disapproving pitch was accompanied by a similarly disapproving gaze, and Peter ducked his head sheepishly. "I come by it honestly."  
  
Sighing, Harriet shifted the sleeping Bredon against her breast and regarded the spill of brightly wrapped presents beneath the enormous, glittering tree. "He's going to be dreadfully spoilt."  
  
"Oh, it won't be as bad as all that. He comes from excellent stock, you know - yours, of course. Why, it wouldn't surprise me in the least if his first words turned out to be, `Father, you silly ass, I can't possibly accept such a ridiculous number of presents.'" He paused. "Granted, that may be expecting a bit much from him at a mere two months of age. Perhaps just `No' then, or a similar negative. I'd rather he not realize his father is a silly ass until he's at least three, if we can push off the revelation that long."  
  
"Precisely my point - two months, Peter. Surely you can see that this is all rather... extravagant."  
  
He leaned close, brushing his lips across her cheek. "Of course I do, m'dear. And that's the whole point of the thing." And then he was gone, hurrying down the corridor, his light step echoing behind him.  
  
Harriet stood alone in the drawing room, looking down at the slumbering infant. "Your father," she murmured, "only pretends to be a silly ass. I shall be very disappointed in you if you come to believe him." She glanced over her shoulder in the direction Peter had gone, her brow furrowing faintly. "However, at present, he's doing an admirable impression of one. What do you suppose he's up to?"   
  
The child offered no response, nor did Harriet expect one.  
  


***

  
  
A week passed, and Harriet found her husband growing more and more secretive.   
  
"A case," he'd said at breakfast, lifting Bredon into his arms and kissing the top of his downy head. "Not terribly interestin', I'm afraid. I'll spare you the details; it's a crashing bore."  
  
Curiosity piqued, she considered pressing the matter, but her husband had already moved on, chattering gaily about any number of topics, including but not limited to St. George's newest obsession ("Foolish lad -the last thing he needs is for his head to be in the clouds literally as well as figuratively."), as well as dinner with Mary and Charles ("The last bit of peace they'll get before the New Year, I don't doubt it."). But what he said next caught Harriet entirely off-guard:  
  
"And I rather imagine I ought to `phone my dear brother and let him know we'll not be joining them at Duke's Denver for Christmas."  
  
"What? Peter, we can't possibly do that! Not a week beforehand!"  
  
"Are you saying that because you've developed a taste for Helen's company, or because she'll pen a missive to everyone she knows informing them of our inexcusable rudeness?"  
  
"Neither. And it is rude."  
  
"Be that as it may, I've made up my mind, missus. And to soothe your worried mind, I'm neither concerned for myself, nor am I overly troubled about what pointedly condescending observation my brother's dear wife may make under the guise of helpfulness."  
  
"I see," she replied, not altogether convinced. "And what is it that has you concerned?"  
  
He bounced Bredon lightly in his arms. "The weather's a bit dodgy to be carting such precious cargo about, what?"  
  
"...The last time you said something along those lines, I recall you were talking about port."  
  
"And more the fool I for thinking nothing else could have warranted such care. So what say you, madam? Shall we be reckless and dreadful and stay here with only our company to keep us warm? The only one who'll be angry with us is Helen, and she spends such a great deal of her time in that state that I doubt anyone will notice."  
  
Harriet hesitated, glancing out the window. The sky was leaden, and though no snow was falling at the moment, it was only a matter of time before it started up again. The desire stirring in her breast was a selfish one: she wanted nothing more than to spend their child's first Christmas in their own home. And while Helen did frequently put a damper on holiday festivities, there were other reasons to attend the family gathering. Harriet was quite aware that Peter enjoyed time spent with the Lord St. George as well as Mary and Charles, to say nothing of their brood. Her uncertainty was writ large on her face, and Peter read the expression fluently.  
  
"My dear, consider it your Christmas gift to me. If I could have nothing else in the world, I would desire the company of no more than my wife and child at Christmas."  
  
A beat of silence passed, during which Harriet lifted an eyebrow eloquently at her husband. "Shall I send everything else back, then?"  
  
"Indeed! Cast everything to the four winds, my sweet, and we shall be the happier for it.  
  


***

  
  
Christmas morning dawned blustery and cold, and had Peter and Harriet not already made the decision to remain at Audley Square, the weather would have decided for them. Snow fell in swirling sheets, and it was near impossible to make out more than vague outlines and dark shapes in the storm. Pulling back the bedroom drapes, Peter peered outside, taking in the scene with little more than a smug smile. Harriet came up behind him, glancing over his shoulder at the snowbound world on the other side of the glass.  
  
"If I didn't know better, I'd have thought you arranged for this yourself."  
  
"Alas, my powers of persuasion don't go quite that far. Fancy thing if they did, though." He turned and grinned at her. "What do you say? Shall we tear downstairs in our dressing gowns and attack the parcels good ol' Saint Nick left for us? Or shall we be proper and civilized about it and have breakfast first? I think I should like to attempt the banister."  
  
"Don't you dare. I'll not have Helen finding out we spent Christmas morning taking you to hospital."  
  
They eventually reached the decision that a gift exchange could only be appreciated properly on a full stomach, and after breakfast, Peter, still in his dressing gown and slippers, offered Harriet his arm. "Shall we?"  
  
Harriet scooped up Bredon, who had already broken his fast, and was gurgling happily, and slipped her arm into that of her husband. However, rather than leading her to the drawing room, his steps took them instead to his study.  
  
"A case, you said," she remarked when they reached the door. Peter had the grace to look sheepish.  
  
"Do forgive me. Duplicity is rather par for the course during this time of year, isn't it?"  
  
He twisted the knob and gave the door a push, letting it swing open, revealing the room. There, near the piano, was a second tree, smaller, but no less beautifully decorated than the one in the drawing room. And on the piano was a doll's house.  
  
"...Peter?"  
  
"Take a closer look."  
  
Upon taking this advice, Harriet found that the house was not a toy, but their beloved Talboys in miniature. Every detail has been painstakingly reproduced, down to the furniture in each of the rooms.  
  
"Peter," she breathed, stepping closer to examine the house, "it's amazing. How on earth did you - the detail is... Darling, the number of rooms. It's wrong."  
  
"Is it?" he replied guilelessly, coming forward to investigate. "Why, I'll be. So it is."  
  
On the far end of the house, overlooking the garden, there was a room that did not exist on the original. Harriet peered into it and saw that it was lined with shelves and cabinets. A spacious writing table had on it a miniature typewriter. It looked very much like the sort of place one might go to write, particularly if one had a fondness for watching out windows as one wrote.  
  
It took a moment for the significance of the change to the miniature to impress itself upon Harriet, but when it did, she found she could say nothing, and only stare at her husband, shocked into speechlessness. His smile warmed his features, and he stepped closer, reaching up to touch her cheek.  
  
"I'm rather relieved you got over your inclination to reject my gifts, you know. I'm afraid the damage is done, and quite irreversible. How does my lady feel about ringing in the New Year in Pagford? --Ah, I'll take your silence as a yes, then. Brilliant." He leaned closer. "Ah, but where might we find two better hemispheres? You are my sharp North, and I am forever your declining West." He then claimed her lips in a kiss, which, in both parties' estimation, lasted nowhere near as long as it ought to have done.  
  
Bredon had grasped a handful of that sleek hair, the color of straw, and was tugging on it joyfully.  
  
"Ah!" Peter yelped as Harriet attempted to extricate the tiny hand from her husband's hair. "Very well, very well, young master, now it's your turn! Demanding child!"  
  
"I did warn you, didn't I?" Harriet laughed. "You were going to spoil him dreadfully."  
  
He smoothed down his hair and shot her a grin. "If he takes after you, my dear, spoiling him will be an uphill battle all the way."

 


End file.
